tOBI-RTLOVIS 
TEVENSON* 


. 


- 


LIBRARY 

UNlVEftSITY  Of 

CAJJFOAMU 
SAN  DIEGO 


Ex  Libris 
Raymond  A.Pcttcy 


d- 


A   LAST  MEMORY 

OF 

ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON. 


A  LAST  MEMORY 

OF 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


BY 

CHARLOTTE   EATON 


Scribere  Jussit  Amor 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS   Y.    CROWELL   COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYBIGHT,    1916, 

BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 


A  LAST  MEMORY  OF 
ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

WHEN  I  came  face  to  face  with 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  it  was  the 
realization  of  one  of  my  most  cherished 
dreams. 

This  was  at  Manasquan,  a  village  on 
the  New  Jersey  coast,  where  he  had 
come  to  make  a  farewell  visit  to  his  old 
friend  Will  Low — the  artist.  Mr.  Low 
had  taken  a  cottage  there  that  Summer 
while  working  on  his  series  of  Lamia 
drawings  for  Lippincotts,  and  Steven- 
son, hearing  that  we  were  on  the  other 
5 


A  Last  Memory  of 


side  of  the  river,  sent  word  that  he 
would  come  to  see  us  on  the  morrow. 

"Stevenson  is  coming,"  was  announced 
at  the  breakfast-table  as  calmly  as 
though  it  were  a  daily  occurrence. 

Stevenson  Coming  to  Manasquan! 

I  was  in  my  'teens,  was  an  enthusias- 
tic student  of  poetry  and  mythology, 
and  Stevenson  was  my  hero  of  romance. 
Was  it  any  wonder  the  intelligence 
excited  me? 

My  husband,  the  late  Wyatt  Eaton, 
and  Stevenson,  were  friends  in  their 
student  days  abroad,  and  it  was  in 
honor  of  those  early  days  that  I  was 
to  clasp  the  hand  of  my  favorite 
author. 

6 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


It  was  in  the  mazes  of  a  contra- 
dance  at  Barbizon,  in  the  picturesque 
setting  of  a  barn  lighted  by  candles,  that 
their  first  meeting  took  place,  where 
Mr.  Eaton,  though  still  a  student  in  the 
schools  of  Paris,  had  taken  a  studio 
to  be  near  Jean  Fra^ois  Millet,  and 
hither  Stevenson  had  come,  with  his 
cousin,  known  as  "Talking  Bob,"  to 
take  part  in  the  harvest  festivities 
among  the  peasants. 

These  were  the  halcyon  days  at  Bar- 
bizon. When  Millet  tramped  the  fields 
and  the  favorite  haunts  of  Rousseau 
and  Corot  could  be  followed  up  through 
the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau,  before 
Barbizon  had  become  a  resort  for  holi- 
7 


A  Last  Memory  of 


day  makers,  or  the  term  "Barbizon 
School"  had  been  thought  of. 

Now,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  the 
quaint  little  Sanborn  Cottage  on  the 
river-bank,  where  we  were  stopping, 
seemed  to  me  the  spot  best  suited  for 
a  first  meeting  with  Stevenson.  The 
Sanborns  were  very  little  on  the  estate 
and  the  place  had  a  neglected  look. 
Indeed,  more  than  that,  one  might 
easily  have  taken  it  for  a  haunted  or 
abandoned  place  —  with  its  garden 
choked  with  weeds,  and  its  window- 
shutters  flaunting  old  spider-webs  to 
the  breeze. 

It  was,  of  course,  the  fanciful,  adven- 
ture-loving Stevenson  that  I  looked 
8 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

forward  to  seeing,  and  I  was  not  dis- 
appointed; and  while  others  spoke  of 
the  flight  of  time  with  its  inevitable 
changes,  I  felt  sure  that,  to  me,  he 
would  be  just  Stevenson  who  wrote  the 
things  over  which  I  had  burned  the 
midnight  oil. 

He  came  promptly  at  the  hour  fixed, 
appearing  on  the  threshold  as  frail  and 
distinguished  looking  as  a  portrait  by 
Velasquez.  He  had  walked  across  the 
mile-long  bridge  connecting  Brielle  and 
Manasquan,  ahead  of  the  others,  for  the 
bracer  he  always  needed  before  joining 
even  a  small  company. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  the  sensation  of 
delight  that  thrilled  me,  as  he  entered 
9 


A  Last  Memory  of 


the  room — tall,  emaciated,  yet  radiant, 
his  straight,  glossy  hair  so  long  that  it 
lay  upon  the  collar  of  his  coat,  throw- 
ing into  bold  relief  his  long  neck  and 
keenly  sensitive  face? 

His  hands  were  of  the  psychic  order, 
and  were  of  marble  whiteness,  save  the 
thumb  and  first  finger  of  the  right  hand, 
that  were  stained  from  constant  cigar- 
ette rolling — for  he  was  an  inveterate 
smoker — and  had  the  longest  fingers  I 
have  ever  seen  on  a  human  being;  they 
were,  in  fact,  part  of  his  general  ap- 
pearance of  lankiness,  that  would  have 
been  uncanny,  but  for  the  geniality  and 
sense  of  bien  etre  that  he  gave  off. 
His  voice,  low  in  tone,  had  an  endear- 
10 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

ing  quality  in  it,  that  was  almost  like 
a  caress.  He  never  made  use  of  ver- 
nacularisms and  was  without  the  slight- 
est Scotch  accent;  on  the  contrary,  he 
spoke  his  English  like  a  world  citizen, 
speaking  a  universal  tongue,  and  al- 
ways looked  directly  at  the  person 
spoken  to. 

I  have  since  heard  one  who  knew  him 

(and  they  are  becoming  scarce  now) 

call  him  the  man  of  good  manners,  or 

"the  Mannerly  Stevenson,"  and  this  is 

the  term  needed  to  complete  my  first 

impression,  for  more  than  the  traveller, 

the  scholar  or  the  author,  it  was  the 

Mannerly  Stevenson  that  appeared  in 

our  midst  that  day.    He  moved  about 

11 


A  Last  Memory  of 


the  room  to  a  ripple  of  repartee  that 
was  contagious,  putting  every  one  on 
his  mettle — in  fact,  his  presence  was  a 
challenge  to  a  jeu  d'esprit  on  every 
hand.  How  self-possessed  he  was,  how 
spiritual!  his  face  glowing  with  memo- 
ries of  other  days. 

He  had  just  come  from  Saranac, 
Saranac-in-the-Adirondacks,  that  had 
failed  to  yield  him  the  elixir  of  life  he 
was  seeking,  and  where  he  had  spent 
a  winter  of  such  solitude  as  even  his 
courageous  wife  was  unable  to  endure. 

His  good  spirits  were  doubtless  the 

rebound  after  good  work  accomplished, 

for  there,  in  "his  hat-box  on  the  hill,'* 

as  he  called  his  quarters  at  Baker's, 

12 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


were  written  his  "Christmas  Sermons," 
"The  Lantern  Bearer,"  and  the  open- 
ing chapters  of  "The  Master  of  Ballan- 
trae."  In  this  "very  decent  house"  he 
would  talk  old  Mr.  Baker  to  sleep  on 
stormy  nights,  and  the  good  old  farmer, 
never  suspecting  that  Stevenson  was 
"anybody  in  particular,"  snored  his 
responses  to  those  flights  in  fact  and 
fancy  for  which  there  are  those  who 
would  have  given  hundreds  of  dollars 
to  have  been  in  the  old  farmer's  place. 
But  it  was  the  very  carelessness  of  Mr. 
Baker  that  helped  along  the  talking 
spell.  This  is  often  the  case  with 
authors;  they  will  pour  out  their 
precious  knowledges  into  the  ears  of 
13 


A  Last  Memory  of 


some  inconsequential  person,  a  tramp 
as  likely  as  not,  picked  up  by  the  way ; 
the  non-critical  attitude  of  the  illiterate 
seems  to  help  the  thinker  in  forming  a 
sequence  of  ideas;  this  explains,  too, 
why  the  artist  values  the  lay  criticism- 
it  hits  directly  at  any  false  note  in  a 
picture,  thus  saving  the  painter  much 
unnecessary  delay. 

Sometimes  Dr.  Trudeau,  also  an 
exile  of  the  mountains,  would  drop  in 
professionally  on  these  stormy  evenings 
and  would  stay  until  about  midnight, 
having  entirely  forgotten  the  nature  of 
his  visit.  Stevenson  had  this  faculty 
of  making  friends  of  those  who  served 
him.  To  the  restaurant  keeper  of 
14 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Monterey,  who  trusted  him  when  he 
was  penniless  and  unknown,  he  pre- 
sented a  set  of  his  books,  leather-bound, 
each  volume  autographed,  and  this 
worthy  man  has  since  refused  a  thou- 
sand dollars  for  the  set.  "Well,"  he  ex- 
plained, "I  do  not  need  the  money,  and 
I  value  the  gift  for  itself."  I  think  this 
friend  of  Stevenson's  must  feel  like 
Father  Tabb  in  the  library  of  his 
friend  when  he  said: 

"To  see,  when  he  is  dead, 
The  many  books  he  read, 
And  then  again,  to  note 
The  many  books  he  wrote; 
How  some  got  in,  and  some  got  out. 
'Tis  very  strange  to  think  about." 

15 


But  to  return  to  our  story. 

Stevenson's  Isle-of-the-blest  was  call- 
ing to  him,  and  hope  lay  that  way, 
where  life  was  elementary  and  where  a 
man  with  but  one  lung  to  his  account 
might  live  indefinitely.  Not  that  he 
feared  to  die.  Oh,  no!  It  takes  more 
courage  sometimes  to  live,  but  it  was 
hard  to  give  up  at  forty,  when  one  just 
begins  to  enter  into  the  knowledge  of 
one's  own  powers.  A  blind  lady  once 
said  to  me,  in  speaking  of  a  mutual 
friend,  "When  Mr.  B.  comes,  I  feel  as 
if  there  was  a  sprite  in  the  room,"  and 
this  is  the  way  I  felt  about  Stevenson, 
for  during  those  moments  of  serious 
discussion  when  most  people  are  tense, 
16 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

he  moved  actively  about,  and  his 
philosophies  were  humanized  by  his 
warm,  brown  eyes  ancl  merry  excla- 
mations. 

Another  reason  for  the  sprite  feel- 
ing, was  that  he  was  consciously  living 
in  the  past  that  day,  and  each  face  was 
like  reseeing  a  milestone  long  passed, 
on  some  half-forgotten  journey. 

It  was  this  sense  of  detachment  that, 
more  than  anything  else,  gave  us  the 
feeling  that  he  was  already  beyond  our 
mortal  ken,  that  he  was  living  at  once 
in  the  visible  and  in  the  invisible,  one 
to  whom  the  passing  of  time  had  little 
significance.  I  think  this  is  true,  more 
17 


A  Last  Memory  of 


or  less,  of  all  those  who  are  marked  for 
a  brief  earthly  career.     . 

By  this  time  the  other  members  of 
the  family  had  arrived.  His  mother, 
Lloyd  Osbourne,  and  Mrs.  Strong,  his 
step-children;  "Fanny,"  his  wife,  was 
in  California,  looking  after  some  prop- 
erty interests  she  had  there,  and  pro- 
visioning the  yacht  chartered  for  the 
voyage  to  the  South  Seas.  In  all  his 
enterprises  she  was  his  major-domo, 
and  her  devotion  no  doubt  helped  to 
prolong  his  life.  Their  mutual  agree- 
ment on  all  financial  matters  reminded 
me  of  a  remark  made  by  mine  host  at  a 
country  inn,  who,  in  speaking  of  his 
wife,  said,  "She  is  my  very  best  invest- 
18 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


ment,"  and  so  was  Mrs.  Stevenson  to 
her  husband,  Lewis,  for  so  the  family 
called  him,  and  never  Robert  Louis. 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  yoking 
of  contrasts  is  an  important  part  in 
Nature's  economy  of  things.  Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox  said  to  me  that  she 
owed  her  success  to  Robert — her  hus- 
band— because  in  all  her  undertakings 
he  went  before  and  smoothed  the  way; 
but  Mr.  Wilcox's  version  of  the  case  is 
another  story.  "I  keep  an  eye  on  Ella," 
said  he,  "to  prevent  her  giving  away 
too  much  money." 

Stevenson  was  now  seated  before  the 
grate,  the  flickering  light  from  the  wood 
fire  illuminating  his  pale  face  to  trans- 
19 


A  Last  Memory  of 


parency.  Now  and  then  he  relapsed 
into  silence,  gazing  into  the  fire  with 
the  rapt  look  of  one  who  sees  visions. 

"Are  you  seeing  a  Salamander,"  I 
asked,  "or  do  the  sparks  flying  upward 
make  you  think  of  the  golden  alchemy 
of  Lescaris?"* 

"A  Salamander,"  he  replied,  smiling. 
"Yes,  a  carnivorous  fire-dweller  that 
eats  up  man  and  his  dreams  forever." 

"Gracious!  But  you  are  going  to 
worse  things  than  Salamanders,  the 
Paua,f  they  will  get  you,  if  you  don't 
watch  out." 

*  Lescaris  was  a  Greek  shepherd  who  discov- 
ered the  secret  of  transmuting  the  baser  metals 
to  fine  gold. 

f  Paua — Native  name  for  the  Tridacna  Gigus, 
a  huge  clam,  that  if  it  closes  on  any  one,  his 
only  escape  is  by  losing  the  limb. 

20 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


And  then,  suddenly  becoming  con- 
scious of  my  temerity  in  interrupting 
the  thread  of  his  reflections,  to  cover 
my  embarrassment,  I  ran  upstairs  for 
my  birthday-book. 

An  autograph! 

Of  course.  And  he  wrote  it,  reading 
out  the  quotation  that  rilled  in  part  of 
the  space.  It  was  one  of  Emerson's 
Kantisms,  something  about  not  going 
abroad,  unless  you  can  as  readily  stay 
at  home  ( I  forget  the  exact  words ) .  It 
was  decidedly  malapropos  and  called 
out  much  merriment. 

"Oh,  stay  at  home,  dear  heart,  and  rest ; 
Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest." 


21 


A  Last  Memory  of 


Somebody   quoted,   to   which   another 
replied: 

"Home-keeping  hearts  have  ever  homely 
wits." 

The  autograph  has  long  since  dis- 
appeared, but  how  often  have  I  thought 
with  regret  of  the  amused  expression  in 
Stevenson's  eyes  at  the  Salamander 
fancy!  What  tales  of  witchery  might 
have  been  spun  from  those  themes 
worthy  of  the  magic  of  his  pen,  the 
fire-dwelling  man-eater,  or  the  discov- 
ery of  the  Greek  shepherd ! 

Stevenson  was  amused  over  our  en- 
thusiasm, and  the  eagerness  of  some  of 
the  younger  members  of  the  company 

to  lionize  him. 

22 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


"And  what  do  you  consider  your 
brightest  failure?"  inquired  our  host. 

"  'Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,' "  he 
replied,  without  a  moment's  hesitation, 
adding,  "that  is  the  worst  thing  I  ever 
wrote." 

"Yet  you  owe  to  it  your  dream- 
expedition,"  some  one  reminded  him. 

"The  dream-expedition?"  he  re- 
peated. "Yes,  that  was  perhaps  a  com- 
pensation for  the  bad  things." 

Benjamin  Franklin  has  said  that 
success  ruins  many  a  man.  The  success 
of  "Trilby"  killed  Du  Maurier,  and 
many  authors  have  had  their  heads 
turned  for  far  less  than  the  Jekyll  and 
Hyde  furore  that  swept  the  country  at 
23 


A  Last  Memory  of 


that  time.  But  the  Mannerly  Steven- 
son carried  his  honors  lightly.  Smiling 
over  the  popularity  of  the  "worst  thing 
he  ever  wrote,"  he  revealed  that  quality 
in  his  own  nature  that  was  finer  than 
anything  he  had  given  to  print,  the 
soul  whose  indomitable  courage  could 
bear  the  brunt  of  adverse  circumstance, 
and  even  contumely,  and  hold  its  own 
integrity,  becoming  a  law  unto  itself. 

Here  was  the  man  who  had  passed 
himself  off  as  one  of  a  group  of  steerage 
passengers  on  that  memorable  trip 
across  the  Atlantic  on  his  way  to 
Monterey  in  quest  of  the  woman  he 
loved,  the  man  whose  life  was  more 
vital  in  its  love-motif  than  any  of  his 
24 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


own  romances,  the  man  who,  in  spite 
of  ill-health  and  uncertainty  of  means, 
yet  paid  the  price  for  his  heart's 
desire. 

"See  here,"  said  a  lusty  fellow,  lurch- 
ing up  to  him  one  day  on  deck.  "You 
are  not  one  of  us,  you  are  a  gentleman 
in  hard  luck." 

"But,"  added  Stevenson  triumphant- 
ly, in  telling  the  story,  "it  was  not  until 
the  end  of  the  voyage  that  they  found 
me  out." 

This  points  the  saying  that  it  was  the 
great  washed  that  Stevenson  fought 
shy  of,  and  not  the  greater  unwashed, 
with  whom  he  was  always  on  the  friend- 
liest terms. 

25 


A  Last  Memory  of 


He  talked  delightfully,  too,  on 
events  connected  with  his  journey 
across  the  plains,  which  he  made  in  an 
emigrant  train,  associating  with  China- 
men, who  cooked  their  meals  on  board, 
and  slept  on  planks  let  down  from  the 
side  of  the  cars. 

"The  air  was  thick,"  said  he,  "and 
an  Oriental  thickness,  at  that." 

But  this  period  of  his  life  was  a  pain- 
ful subject  for  his  mother,  who  was 
present,  and  some  of  his  best  stories 
were  omitted  on  her  account. 

He  told  us,  however,   about  being 

nearly  lynched  for  throwing  away  a 

lighted  match  on  the  prairie.    "And  all 

the  fuss,"  said  he,  "before  I  was  made 

26 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

aware  of  the  nature  of  my  crime." 
Both  his  mother  and  Sydney  Colvin 
had  done  their  best  to  make  him 
accept  enough  money,  as  a  loan,  to 
make  this  trip  comfortable.  But  he 
had  refused.  He  was,  he  explained, 
"doing  that  which  neither  his  family 
nor  friends  could  approve,"  and  he 
would  therefore  accept  no  financial 
aid. 

"Just  before  starting,"  said  he,  "be- 
ing in  need  of  money,  I  called  at  the 
Century  office,  where  I  had  left  some 
manuscript,  with  the  request  for  an 
early  decision,  but  was  politely  shown 
the  door." 

Consternation  seized  us  at  this  an- 
27 


nouncement,  for  all  present  knew  the 
Editor  for  a  man  of  sympathy  and 
heart.  But  Stevenson  himself  came  to 
our  relief  with,  "But  Mr.  Gilder  was 
abroad  that  year."  He  laughed  good- 
naturedly  over  the  dilemmas  that  West- 
ern Editors  threw  him  into  by  their 
tardiness  in  paying  space  rates  for  the 
stories  and  essays  upon  which,  it  is  now 
conceded,  his  fame  must  rest. 

As  he  went  from  reminescence  to 
reminescence,  we  felt  that  from  this 
period  of  his  vivid  obscurity  might  have 
been  drawn  material  for  some  of  his 
most  stirring  romances,  and  we  were 
rewarded  as  good  listeners  by  the  dis- 
covery of  that  which  he  thought  his  best 
28 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

work,  namely,  the  little  story  called 
"Will  o'  the  Mill." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Sanborn,  his 
eyes  beaming,  "if  you  live  to  be  as  old 
as  Methuselah,  with  all  the  world's  lore 
at  your  finger-ends,  you  could  never 
improve  on  that  simple  little  story." 

We  teased  Stevenson  a  good  deal  on 
the  enormity  of  his  royalties  on  "Dr. 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,"  which,  besides 
having  had  what  the  publishers  call  a 
"run"  that  means  something  vastly 
different  from  the  same  term  when 
applied  to  a  bank,  was  bringing  in  a 
second  goodly  harvest  from  its  drama- 
tization, by  which  his  voyage  to  the 
South  Seas  had  become  a  reality. 


A  Last  Memory  of 


Remembering  his  remark  that  his 
idea  of  Purgatory  was  a  perpetual  high 
wind,  I  asked  him:  "Why  have  you 
chosen  an  island  for  your  future  habi- 
tat; or,  if  an  island,  why  not  Nevis  in 
the  West  Indies,  where  one  is  in  the 
perpetual  doldrums,  so  to  speak?" 
"There  will  be  no  more  wind  on  Samoa 
than  just  enough  to  turn  the  page  of 
the  book  one  is  reading,"  he  replied; 
and  windless  Nevis  was  British,  you  see, 
and  his  first  necessity  was  to  get  away 
where  nobody  reads.  Like  Jubal,  son 
of  Lamech,  who  felt  himself  hemmed 
in  by  hearing  his  songs  repeated  in  a 
land  where  everybody  sung,  so  he  was 
shadowed  by  the  Jekyll  and  Hyde 
30 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

mania  in  a  land  where  everybody  read. 
The  very  essence  of  his  isolation  is 
felt  in  a  playful  little  fling  at  a  Mr. 
Nerli,  an  artist,  who  went  out  there  to 
paint  his  portrait,  as  well  as  the  bore- 
dom every  one  experiences  in  sitting 
to  a  painter. 

"Did  ever  mortal  man  hear  tell,  of  sae  singu- 
lar a  feriie, 

Of  the  coming  to  Apia  here,  of  the  painter, 
Mr.  Nerli? 

He  came;  and  O  for  a  human  found,  of  a* 
he  was  the  pearlie, 

The  pearl  of  a'  the  painter  folk,  was  surely 
Mr.  Nerli. 

He  took  a  thraw  to  paint  mysel* ;  he  painted 

late  and  early ; 
O  now!  the  mony  a  yawn  I've  yawned  in 

the  beard  of  Mr.  Nerli. 
31 


A  Last  Memory  of 


Whiles  I  would  sleep,  an*  whiles  would  wake, 
an'  whiles  was  mair  than  surly, 

I  wondered  sair,  as  I  sat  there,  forninst 
the  eyes  of  Nerli. 

O  will  he  paint  me  the  way  I  want,  as  bonnie 

as  a  girlie? 
Or  will  he  paint  me  an  ugly  type,  and  be 

damned  to  Mr.  Nerli! 
But  still  and  on,  and  whichever  it  is,  he  is  a 

Canty  Kerlie, 
The  Lord  proteck  the  back  and  neck  of 

honest  Mr.  Nerli." 

Which  shows  that  he  was  not  alto- 
gether free  from  bothers  even  after 
reaching  his  "port  o'  dreams."  In  run- 
ning away  from  Purgatorial  winds, 
only  to  be  held  up  by  a  paint-brush! 
Also,  as  most  of  us  when  excited  fall 
back  upon  our  early  idiom,  so  Steven- 
82 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

son,  in  jest  or  lyric  mood,  drifted  into 
the  dialect  of  his  fathers. 

We  found,  much  to  our  surprise,  that 
Stevenson  knew  every  nook  and  cranny 
of  the  Sanborn  estate,  and  told  us  of 
his  trespassings — in  their  absence — in 
search  of  fresh  eggs  for  his  breakfast, 
having  observed  that  the  hens  had 
formed  nomadic  habits,  laying  in  the 
wood-pile  and  in  odd  corners  all  over 
the  grounds.  This  was  during  a  former 
visit  when  he  stayed  at  Wainwright's, 
a  landmark  that  has  recently  been 
wiped  out  by  fire. 

"One  day,  as  I  walked  by,"  said  he 
— meaning  the  Sanborn  place — "I 
heard  a  hen  cackling  in  that  triumphant 


A  Last  Memory  of 


way  that  left  no  doubt  as  to  her  having 
performed  her  duty  to  the  species.  I 
vaulted  the  fence  for  that  particular 
egg  and  found  it,  still  warm,  with 
others,  on  its  bed  of  soft  chips.  After 
that,  I  had  an  object  in  my  long,  soli- 
tary walks.  New  laid  eggs  for  all 
occasions!  And  why  not,"  he  asked 
merrily,  "seeing  there  was  no  other 
proprietor  than  Chanticleer  Peter,  who 
had  been  the  victim  of  neglect  so  long 
that  he  would  crow  me  a  welcome,  and 
in  time  became  so  tame  that  he  would 
spring  on  my  knee  and  eat  crumbs 
from  my  fingers?" 

The  Sanborns  were  in  Europe  that 
year  and,  all  things  considered,  is  it 
14 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


any  wonder  that  he  took  the  place  for 
being  abandoned? 

"Nothing  but  my  instinct  for  the 
preservation  of  property  kept  me  from 
smashing  all  the  windows  for  exercise," 
said  he. 

"I  am  glad  thee  was  good  to  Peter," 
said  Mrs.  Sanborn.  Her  extinct  brood 
was  a  pain  still  rankling  in  her  bosom. 
She  had  found  Peter  frozen  stiff  on  the 
bough  on  which  he  was  roosting,  after 
his  hens  had  disappeared  by  methods 
too  elemental  to  explain. 

They  had  left  no  servants  in  charge, 
and  neighbors  there  were  none  to 
restrain  the  attacks  of  marauders,  and 
35 


they   were   prize   leghorns,   too.      She 
almost  wailed. 

What  a  shame! 

Well  might  all  bachelors  who  are 
threatened  with  a  wintry  solitude  take 
warning  by  unhappy  Peter. 

But  he  is  not  without  the  honor  due 
to  martyrdom — is  Peter,  for  Mrs.  San- 
born  had  him  stuffed,  and  presented 
him  to  "Fanny,"  who  took  him  to 
California,  where  he  survived  the  great 
San  Francisco  earthquake. 

"He  must  have  been  our  mascot," 
said  Lloyd  Osbourne  to  me  long  after, 
"for  the  fire  that  followed  the  earth- 
quake came  just  as  far  as  the  gate  and 
no  farther." 

36 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


Since  the  cup  that  cheers  is  not  cus- 
tomary in  Quaker  homes,  our  hostess 
proposed  an  egg-nog  by  way  of  after- 
noon collation,  and  all  entered  with  zest 
into  the  mixing  of  the  decoction.  One 
brought  the  eggs,  another  the  sugar- 
bowl,  while  our  host  went  to  the  cellar 
for  that  brand  of  John  Barleycorn  that 
transmutes  every  beverage  to  a  toast. 

Now,  while  Stevenson  came  to  re- 
gard new-laid  eggs  as  the  natural 
manna  of  the  desert,  he  had  his  doubts 
as  to  the  feasibility  of  egg-nog,  see- 
ing that  milk  is  a  necessary  constituent. 
He  did  not  know,  you  see,  that  a  little 
white  Alderney  cow  was  chewing  the 
cud  of  salt-meadow  grasses  in  the  woods 
37 


A  Last  Memory  of 


nearby,  and,  even  as  he  doubted,  Mrs. 
Sanborn  and  her  Ganymedes  had 
brought  in  a  jug  of  the  white  fluid, 
topped  with  a  froth  like  sea-foam. 

"It's  nectar  for  the  gods  on  Olym- 
pus," said  I — meaning  the  milk. 

"True  Ambrosia  of  the  meadows," 
agreed  Mrs.  Sanborn. 

"Well,  this  is  Elysium,  and  we  are 
the  gods  to-day." 

Elysium-on-Manasquan. 

"To  be  more  exact,"  said  Stevenson, 
"it  should  be  Argos;  it  was  there  they 
celebrated  the  cow,  as  we  are  now 
celebrating " 

"Tidy,"  said  Mrs.  Sanborn. 

"lo,"  corrected  Stevenson,  waving 
38 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

his  fork,  for  he,  too,  was  helping  to 
beat   the   eggs : 

"Argos-on-Manasquan." 

He  lingered  over  the  name  Manas- 
quan,  as  though  he  enjoyed  saying  it. 

"The  first  thing  that  impressed  me 
in  travelling  in  America,"  said  he,  "was 
your  Indian  names  for  towns  and 
rivers.  Tamiscami,  Cognawaga,  Ti- 
conderoga,  the  very  sound  of  them 
thrills  one  with  romantic  fancies.  Why 
do  you  not  revive  more  of  these  charm- 
ing Indian  names?" 

"We  are  too  young  yet  to  appreciate 
our  legendry  wealth,"  said  Mr.  San- 
born,  with  an  emphasis  on  the  "leg- 
endry." 

39 


"Qui  s'excuse,  s'accuse"  reminded 
Mrs.  Low,  who  was  a  French  woman. 

"Quite  right,"  assented  Mr.  Sanborn, 
"it  is  not  precedent  we  lack,  but  valua- 
tions." 

"To  return  to  Argos,"  said  Mrs. 
Sanborn — the  peace-maker — "I  always 
feel  in  the  presence  of  a  divine  mystery 
when  I  milk  Tidy.  No  one  could  be 
guilty  of  a  frivolous  thing  before  the 
calm  eye  of  that  little  cow." 

Mrs.  Sanborn  possessed  the  reverent 
spirit  of  the  pre-Raphaelites,  which 
burned  modestly  in  its  Quaker  shrine 
or  flared  up  like  lightning  as  occasion 
required,  and  she  delighted  in  the 
deification  of  her  little  cow.  And  why 
40 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

not?  Had  not  Tidy's  worshipped  an- 
cestors nourished  kings  of  antiquity, 
and  given  idols  to  their  temples,  and 
stood  she  not  to-day  as  perfect  a  sym- 
bol of  maternity? 

I  do  not  now  remember  whether  it 
was  referring  to  Samoa  as  Stevenson's 
"port  o'  dreams"  that  brought  up  the 
discussion  of  dreams.  To  some  one  who 
asked  him  if  he  believed  that  dreams 
came  true,  he  replied,  "Certainly,  they 
are  just  as  real  as  anything  else." 

"Well,  it's  what  one  believes  that 
counts,  isn't  it,  and  one  can  form  any 
theory  in  a  world  where  dreams  are  as 
real  as  other  things,  and  is  it  the  same 
with  ideals?"  somebody  ventured. 
41 


A  Last  Memory  of 


"Ideals,"  said  Stevenson,  "are  apt  to 
stay  by  you  when  material  things  have 
taken  the  proverbial  wings,  and  are 
assets  quite  as  enduring  as  stone 
fences." 

"And  was  it  from  a  want  of  faith  in 
the  durability  of  stone  fences,  or  ignor- 
ance of  their  dream-assets  that  accounts 
for  the  way  that  Cato  and  Demosthenes 
solved  their  problems?"  was  the  next 
question,  but  as  this  high  strain  was 
interrupted  by  more  frivolity,  my 
thoughts  again  reverted  to  the  solid- 
ity of  Stevenson's  dreams,  that  now 
furnished  his  inquiring  soul  with  new 
fields  for  exploration,  as  well  as  a 
42 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


dominant  interest  to  fill  up  the  measure 
of  his  earthly  span. 

He  regretted  leaving  the  haunts  of 
man,  he  told  us,  particularly  the  sep- 
aration from  his  friends,  which  was 
satisfactory,  coming,  as  it  did,  from  the 
man  who  coined  the  truism  that  the  way 
to  have  a  friend  is  to  be  one. 

But  this  was  his  fighting  chance,  "and 
a  fellow  had  to  die  fighting,  you  know." 
What  was  civilization  anyway  to  one 
who  needed  only  sunshine  and  negligee? 
Thus  in  no  other  than  a  tone  of  pleas- 
antry did  he  refer  to  his  condition,  and 
never  have  I  seen  a  face  or  heard  a 
voice  so  exempt  from  bitterness.  He 
told  me,  in  fact,  that  he  was  unable  to 
43 


A  Last  Memory  of 


breathe  in  a  room  with  more  than  four 
people  in  it  at  a  time.  This  sounds  like 
an  exaggeration,  or  one  of  the  vagaries 
of  the  sick,  yet  things  that  seem  trifles 
to  the  well,  can  be  tragic  to  the  nervous 
sufferer.  Mrs.  Low  has  told  me  that 
at  a  dinner  of  only  five  or  six  covers 
Stevenson  would  frequently  get  up 
and  throw  open  a  window  to  breathe 
in  enough  ozone  to  enable  him  to  get 
through  the  evening. 

He  was  embarking  to  the  lure  of  soft 
airs  and  long,  subliminal  solitudes,  ac- 
cepting gracefully  the  one  hope  held 
out,  when  the  crowded  habitations  of 
cities  had  become  a  torture.  We  felt 
the  pity  of  the  enforced  exile  of  so  com- 
44 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

panionable  a  spirit,  but  we  did  not  voice 
it,  feeling  constrained  to  live  up  to  the 
standard  of  cheerfulness  he  had  so 
valiantly  set  for  us. 

Mr.  Eaton,  who  boasted  that,  in  him, 
a  good  sea  captain  had  been  spoiled  to 
make  a  bad  painter,  encouraged  Steven- 
son to  talk  freely  of  his  plans,  and  he 
dwelt  at  some  length  on  the  beauty  and 
seaworthiness  of  the  yacht  Casco,  that 
had  been  chartered  for  the  voyage. 
This  sea  theme  led,  of  course,  to  the 
inevitable  fish  stories,  and  after  some 
mythological  whale  had  been  swallowed 
by  some  non-Biblical  Jonah,  I  re- 
marked, in  the  lull  that  followed,  "May- 
45 


A  Last  Memory  of 


be  the  waters  of  the  South  Seas  will 
yield  you  up  a  heroine." 

A  laugh  went  around  at  this,  for 
some  present  thought  I  had  said  a 
"herring."  But  Stevenson  had  no 
doubt  as  to  my  meaning.  "I  am  always 
helpless,"  said  he,  "when  I  try  to  de- 
scribe a  woman;  but  then,"  he  added, 
brightly,  "how  should  I  hope  to  under- 
stand a  woman,  when  God,  who  made 
her,  cannot?"  As  straws  show  how  the 
wind  blows,  so  this  little  pun  throws 
light  on  Stevenson's  state  of  mind  to- 
ward womankind  in  general.  During 
this  heroine  discussion,  he  remarked 
that  he  was  always  "unconscionably 
bored"  by  the  conversation  of  young 
46 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

girls.  He  had  no  desire,  it  seems,  to 
mould  the  young  idea  to  his  taste,  as 
Horace,  when  he  said: 

"Place  me  where  the  world  is  not  habitable, 
Where    the   Day-God's    Chariot    too   near 

approaches, 

Yet  will  I  love  Lalage,  see  her  sweet  smile, 
Hear  her  sweet  prattle." 

Even  as  a  school-boy  he  was  unable 
to  mingle  with  lads  of  his  own  age. 
This,  doubtless,  is  another  of  the  pre- 
cocities of  the  early-doomed,  who  feel 
that  every  moment  of  life  they  have 
must  be  lived  to  the  full.  A  well- 
known  artist,  who  was  suffering  with 
tuberculosis,  once  said  to  me,  in  de- 
scribing his  working  hours  at  the  studio, 
47 


A  Last  Memory  of 


"I  must  make  every  touch  tell,  and 
every  moment  count."  So  to  Stevenson 
the  rounded  out  sympathies  of  maturity 
were  more  attractive  than  the  sweet 
prattle  of  girlhood,  because,  like  the 
painter,  with  his  paint,  he,  with  his  life, 
had  to  make  every  moment  count,  and 
this,  of  course,  explains  his  having 
chosen  a  woman  so  much  older  than 
himself  as  a  life-companion;  a  woman 
in  whom  he  could  find  a  response  on 
his  own  mental  plane. 

In  a  little  poem  which  I  copied  from 
an  old  scrap-book  in  a  garret  out  in 
Duluth,  Stevenson  not  only  draws  a 
good  portrait  of  his  wife,  but  pays  her 
a  beautiful  tribute  as  well,  which  was 
48 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

something  of  a  test  even  to  his  skill,  for 
I  knew  Mrs.  Stevenson,  and  she  was 
certainly  no  beauty: 

"Trusty,  dusky,  vivid  true, 
With  eyes  of  gold  and  bramble-clew, 
Steel-true  and  blade-straight, 
The  Great  Artist 
Made  my  mate. 

Honor,  anger,  valor,  fire, 
A  love  that  life  could  never  tire ; 
Death  quench  or  evil  stir 
The  Mighty  Maker 
Gave  to  her. 

Teacher,  tender,  comrade,  wife, 
A  fellow-farer,  staunch  through  life, 
Heart-whole  and  soul-free, 

The  August  Father 

Gave  to  me." 

49 


A  Last  Memory  of 


Some  of  "Fanny's"  stories  of  New 
York  City  were  as  amusing  as  Steven- 
son's prairie  experiences.  She  always 
engaged  a  messenger-boy  to  pioneer 
her  through  the  great  stone  jungle, 
and  sights  to  which  New  Yorkers 
are  inured  to  her  were  emotionalizing 
events. 

On  first  arriving,  she  went  directly 
to  the  old  Albert  Hotel  on  University 
Place  and  Eleventh  Street,  registering 
thus:  "Mrs.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
(wife  of  the  author  of  'Dr.  Jekyll  and 
Mr.  Hyde')."  To  those  of  the  friends 
who  smiled  over  it,  she  explained  that, 
not  being  very  well,  she  was  afraid  that 
50 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

if  they  did  not  know  who  she  was,  that 
she  would  have  been  neglected. 

I  have  never  seen  a  portrait  of 
Stevenson  that  equalled  his  appear- 
ance that  day.  The  bas-relief  by  Saint 
Gaudens  approximates  it  somewhat  in 
ethereal  thinness,  but  the  verve,  the 
glow,  the  vital  spark,  are  lacking  even 
in  that.  I  felt  the  poetry  of  the  day 
more  poignantly  as  the  hour  for  parting 
approached,  and  when  the  sun  began  to 
wane,  I  went  out  on  the  lawn  to  see  the 
place  under  the  spell  of  the  lengthened 
shadows  and  the  mellow  sun-rays  that 
turn  the  tree-trunks  to  burnished  gold. 
This  has  always  been  my  favorite  hour, 
this  charmed  hour  before  sunset,  when 
51 


A  Last  Memory  of 


we  can  almost  feel  the  earth's  move- 
ment under  our  feet — an  hour  that 
transcends  in  poetry  anything  that  can 
be  imagined  by  the  finite  mind. 

I  walked  up  and  down  under  the 
cedars  bordering  the  river,  to  quiet  my 
emotion.  It  was  there,  too,  under  the 
cedars,  that  a  remark  of  Mr.  Eaton's, 
in  describing  to  me  his  first  meeting 
with  Stevenson,  flashed  across  my  mem- 
ory: "He  combined  the  face  of  a  boy 
with  the  distinguished  bearing  of  a  man 
of  the  world."  And  I  thought,  as  I 
saw  him  then,  merrily  recalling  the 
scenes  and  escapades  of  student  life, 
"How  well  the  distinguished  man  of 
52 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


the  world  had  succeeded  in  keeping  the 
heart  of  a  boy!" 

A  passage  in  Mr.  Low's  book,  "A 
Chronicle  of  Friendships,"  that  recalls 
that  day  most  vividly,  is  this :  "Steven- 
son never  once  excused  himself  from 
our  company  on  the  plea  of  having 
work  to  do."  For  so  it  was  with  us ;  he 
seemed  to  have  no  cares  of  preoccu- 
pations, but  to  be  content  to  be  there, 
enjoying  the  conversation  and  the 
pleasantness  of  the  passing  hour. 

I  had  a  cosy  quarter  of  an  hour  with 
his  mother  after  my  walk,  and  off  by 
ourselves,  in  a  corner,  away  from  inter- 
ruption, she  spoke  of  her  son's  child- 
hood. In  her  eyes,  he  was  still  the 
53 


A  Last  Memory  of 


"bonnie  wee  laddie"  who  scouted  about 
in  his  make-believe  worlds  among  the 
chairs  and  tables  in  the  drawing-room 
while  she  entertained  her  friends,  and 
we  repeated  bits  from  "A  Child's 
Garden  of  Verses." 

I  think  that  if  there  is  any  clue  to  the 
character  of  a  great  man  we  must  look 
to  his  mother.  Mrs.  Stevenson  em- 
bodied the  idea  of  her  son's  peculiar 
charm;  there  was  the  same  triumphal 
youthfulness,  and  her  cheeks  were 
round  and  rosy  like  a  ripe  apple. 

I  think  of  the  mother  now,  after  so 

many  years,  as  the  crowning  influence 

of   the   day,    quiet    and   reticent,   but 

always   felt,   and  honored   by   all   as 

54 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


became   the   mother  of   our   welcome 
guest. 

In  her  letters,  written  in  the  Mar- 
quesas to  her  sister  in  Scotland,  she 
carries  out  this  impression  of  habitual 
freshness  of  spirit,  and  her  humor  is 
subtle  and  optimistic:  "Nothing  gives 
me  more  pleasure  or  a  better  appetite 
than  an  obstacle  overcome."  She  shows 
herself  the  life  of  "The  Silver  Ship," 
as  the  people  of  Fakarava  dubbed  the 
Casco,  and  never  a  word  of  criticism  or 
complaint  is  penned  at  any  inconve- 
nience or  annoyance  endured  by  the 
way.  Indeed,  one  marvels  at  her  tran- 
quillity in  the  midst  of  so  many  com- 
plications— just  as  one  wondered  at 
55 


A  Last  Memory  of 


the  simplicity  of  Queen  Victoria  in 
her  diary.  One  of  the  chief  delights 
in  the  perusal  of  these  letters  is  the 
questions  they  project  into  the  mind 
of  the  reader.  Is  it  a  style,  a  native 
virtue,  a  mannerism,  a  fad,  or  what? 

For  example,  she  never  suspects  that 
the  French  man-o'-war  in  one  of  the 
bays  may  account  for  some  of  the  good 
behavior  of  the  natives,  or  that  their 
bounty  in  cocoanuts  and  bread-fruit 
may  be  tendered  with  an  eye  to  the 
novelties  to  be  had  in  exchange,  but 
accepts  all  in  good  faith,  as  part  of 
their  native  generosity. 

And  what  a  joy  it  is  to  see  her  tak- 
ing holy  communion  with  these  people, 
56 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


so  lately  reclaimed  from  cannabalism, 
and  taking  the  ceremony  "au  grand 
serieux"!  Thus,  a  missionary  within, 
a  warship  without,  the  amenities  of 
religion  and  society  are  enjoyed  to  the 
full. 

One  lays  down  these  letters  and 
laughs,  many  a  time,  where  no  laughter 
was  intended.  Certainly,  she  was  a 
good  mixer  as  well  as  the  born  mother 
of  a  genius. 

Stevenson's  death  is  an  anomaly  no 
less  pathetic  than  his  life,  for  in  elud- 
ing extinction  by  consumption,  he 
probably  achieved  a  still  earlier  end  by 
apoplexy.  I  had  the  account  from 
Mrs.  Low,  who  received  it  directly 
57 


A  Last  Memory  of 


from  "Fanny"  by  letter.  Mrs.  Steven- 
son was  mixing  a  salad  of  native  ingre- 
dients of  which  Stevenson  was  very 
fond,  when  he  joined  her  in  the  kitchen, 
complaining  that  he  was  not  very  well, 
and  sitting  down,  laid  his  head  on  her 
shoulder,  where  in  about  twenty  min- 
utes he  expired. 

I  said  at  the  beginning  that  I  was 
not  disappointed  in  the  personality  of 
Stevenson,  but  it  would  be  nearer  the 
mark  to  say  that  my  anticipations  fell 
far  short  of  the  reality. 

It    is    often    the    case    in    meeting 

literary   celebrities   that   one   has   the 

feeling  that  they  are  first  authors,  and 

after  that  men.     Rodin,  the  French 

58 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

sculptor,  focuses  this  idea  by  saying 
that  "many  are  artists  at  the  expense 
of  some  qualities  of  manhood."  With 
Stevenson  one  was  clearly  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  man,  and  after  that  the 
scholar  and  the  gentleman. 

Was  it  not  this  fine  distinction  that, 
in  spite  of  woollen  shirt  and  a  third- 
class  transportation,  awoke  the  sus- 
picions of  his  companions  of  the 
steerage,  that  prompted  the  already 
quoted  remark,  "You  are  not  one  of 
us"? 

And  on  that  memorable  journey 
across  the  plains,  seeking  the  woman 
of  his  choice,  resolved,  though  penni- 
less and  unknown,  to  make  her  his 
59 


A  Last  Memory  of 


wife  in  spite  of  every  obstacle,  the 
truth  that  the  frailty  of  the  body  is 
no  criterion  for  the  strength  of  the 
spirit  is  well  brought  out.  It  was,  in 
fact,  this  quality  of  initiative  that  con- 
stituted his  chief  charm — the  quality 
that,  above  all  others,  made  us  so 
spontaneous  in  his  presence  and  so 
proud  of  his  achievement. 

We  knew  that  we  were  seeing  him 
at  his  best,  surrounded  by  his  old 
friends,  and  with  the  light  of  the  mem- 
ory of  his  youthful  ambitions  on  his 
face.  We  knew,  too,  that  the  parting 
would  be  a  life-long  one,  and  that  we 
would  never  look  upon  his  like  again. 
This  regret  each  knew  to  be  uppermost 
60 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


in  the  mind  of  the  others,  but  when  the 
good-byes  began,  we  made  no  sign 
that  it  was  to  be  more  than  the  absence 
of  a  day. 

Nevertheless,  the  tensity  of  the  last 
moments  of  parting  was  keenly  felt. 
Stevenson  had  planned  to  spend  his 
last  night  at  Wainwright's,  and  Lloyd 
Osbourne  was  to  row  him  across  the 
river.  Mr.  Eaton  and  I  went  down  to 
the  river-bank  to  see  them  off  and  to 
wave  our  last  adieux. 

The  rumble  of  carriage-wheels  in 
the  distance,  and  the  reverberations  of 
footsteps  and  voices  on  the  old  wooden 
bridge  grew  fainter  and  died  away, 
before  the  little  boat  was  pushed  off; 
61 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


and  then,  these  two  friends,  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  and  Wyatt  Eaton, 
both  at  the  zenith  of  their  life  and 
powers,  and  both  hovering  so  closely 
on  the  brink  of  eternity,  sent  their  last 
messages  to  each  other,  across  the  dis- 
tance, until  the  little  boat  had  glided 
away,  on  the  ebb-tide,  a  mere  speck  in 
the  gray  transparency  of  the  twilight. 


62 


UC  SOUTHBW  REGIONAL  U8RARY  FAOUTY 


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